Schism
by Ryne42
Summary: Arthur is left alone in the throne room after discovering Lancelot and Guinevere. Missing scene from 4x09.


**Title:** Schism  
**Characters/Pairings:** Arthur/Gwen  
**Rating/Warning:** T  
**Universe:** Canon  
**Notes:** Apparently I just have a lot of feels for this episode recently. xD I was listening to _El Tango de Roxanne_ from _Moulin Rouge_ and I realized how perfect Christian's part is for Arthur. Once again, this was supposed to be a short little drabble, and it morphed into a full-length oneshot. It seems to happen quite a lot. Whoops. Also, hopefully this makes Arthur seem like less of a raging doucheface towards Gwen. :(

* * *

_His eyes upon your face;  
__His hand upon your hand;  
__His lips caress your skin;  
__It's more than I can stand._

Gwen didn't protest as the guards dragged her and Lancelot away, and Arthur was glad of it, because he could hardly bear to hear her voice after she had stepped into the duel to save Lancelot with a whispered _please_. The doors slammed behind them, cutting off her sobs, and Arthur stood alone in the middle of the throne room.

Well. Not entirely alone.

"Arthur," said Agravaine, looming out of the shadows. "Arthur, I cannot begin to tell you—"

Arthur was sure he could, quite volubly, as well, and so he held up a hand, and Agravaine fell silent. "Leave me, Uncle," he said softly. "Please." Agravaine stood in front of him for a second, looking as though he wanted to say something else, but then mercifully, he bowed and made his way to the door without another word.

And then Arthur was alone.

He had never felt so betrayed in his life — not by his father after Morgause brought his mother back; not by the old sorcerer who had killed his father despite his promises; not even by Morgana and all that she had done to hurt him. He had trusted Gwen with his heart — something he had never given to anyone, never even _shown_ to anyone before — and she had taken it, held it, _scorned_ it.

He had thought that her tears at Lancelot's funeral had been tears of guilt, not tears shed over a lost lover. And when Lancelot had reappeared, Arthur had celebrated with the rest of them without a hint of fear that he might have a rival, because Gwen had chosen him and had shown no hint of doubting that decision. And he had been glad to see Lancelot, had been overjoyed to have him back — he was a kindred spirit, the one man out of all his knights whose philosophy he understood, and who understood him completely in return. But it appeared that they understood one another too well in their love for Guinevere, and that she had had more doubts than she let on.

Had he pressured her? Had his status intimidated her into staying with him, when she would rather have been with Lancelot? He was king, and she was a servant; perhaps she had felt obligated to be his beloved because he wanted it to be so. But no, he knew her better than that — she was too outspoken, too honest to do that.

...Honest?

He couldn't call her that, not after tonight. It had been one of his favorite things about her, what had made him take notice of her in the first place; growing up in the court, with all its lies and backstabbing and intrigue, her honesty had been a breath of fresh air, and now it was gone, and maybe he hadn't known her as well as he had thought. No, he definitely didn't — the Gwen he had known would never have done this.

Once more the image of the two of them wrapped round one another flashed in his mind, and it was like being stabbed, _worse_ than being stabbed, because he had never been more honest with anyone, and she had been lying to him about Lancelot for ages. He wondered how long this affair had been going on, how many times they had met before Lancelot had stepped through the veil, whether this was a one-time tryst or if they had had many in the past. He and Gwen had never been intimate, but now he wondered why she had been so content with that, when clearly one man was not enough for her; or perhaps that was _why_ one man was not enough for her. Had she saved her days for him and her nights for Lancelot? If so, then she had never given any sign of it; but he could no longer trust his ability to read people, and he could no longer trust her to tell him the truth.

He didn't owe her anything as Arthur — but as king, he owed her a fair trial. And he would be fair. He felt like his insides had been clawed out by an animal, but he would be fair, and at least hear her out before sentencing her.

And he knew the law — adultery was punishable by death.

Maybe it had just been a kiss — maybe there was more to it, maybe not — but the council wouldn't see it that way, not with their prejudices; he had done so much to change their minds, to get them to accept Gwen as their queen, and for her to have betrayed his trust like that... they would look down on her even more than before, because she had made them look like fools for accepting her even for a minute. They would call for her head, literally, and by law they should have it.

And for a minute he allowed his white-hot rage to overcome him, and he could see himself, standing on the balcony, looking down into the courtyard to see her kneeling on the platform with her head on the block — he lifted his hand, the axe rose, the drums rolled — the people growled and hissed like animals, riled by the news of her betrayal — his hand fell, and the axe fell with it — a dull _thunk_ as the blade bit into her neck, and the crowd cheered to see her blood flow—

He couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't bear to see her dead, couldn't bear to give the order, and retched a little just to think of it. The whole situation was making him sick to his stomach, ever since Agravaine had first brought him there to see it for himself. But the law must be upheld; the council would see to it, and she would die tomorrow unless he could find a way around it. Perhaps Agravaine would help him to come up with an alternate punishment.

No. No, he had to decide this for himself. He could try to think of what his uncle would advise him to do, but he could not actually ask for his advice, because doing so would show uncertainty; it would tell his council and his people that matters of the heart undermined his decision-making and left him weak and malleable. He had to do it himself.

But that could wait, at least for a few minutes. For now, Arthur sank onto his throne, uncomfortable and lonely, and allowed himself to weep.

_You're free to leave me,_  
_But just don't deceive me._  
_Believe me when I say_  
_I love you._


End file.
